Free Her Ladyship's Man by Joan Overfield Page A

instantly filled once the other men catch a glimpse of you."
    "I should enjoy that, Mr. Barrymore," she answered with a genuine smile. Despite the disparity in their ranks, she had never looked down upon Mr. Barrymore, and often danced with him in Washington. He was not a graceful dancer, but he was at least an adequate one, which was more than could be said about the other partners she had been forced to endure in the name of diplomacy. "May I be so bold as to remark that both you and Papa are looking quite handsome?"
    "Thank you, my lady." Mr. Barrymore's chest swelled with visible pride. Both he and the earl were dressed in black velvet evening coats and white silk breeches, their starched cravats tied with precision. Her father wore one of his many citations pinned to his jacket, and a large gold signet ring adorned his finger. Mr. Barrymore wore no jewelry at all, save for a small diamond winking from thefolds of his snowy cravat, but still he managed to look a trifle more elegant than her father. But then, she realized with a flash of insight, he often did.
    Since Lady Charlotte was Melanie's chaperone it was decided they could dispense with Miss Evingale's services for the evening, a decision her companion greeted with amazing tolerance. She wished them a pleasant good evening, and after adding her gushing words of praise to the others', she went skipping up the stairs, an ever-present Gothic clutched protectively to her bosom.
    As there was just the four of them, it was decided they would take the duke's carriage, and all too soon they were pulling up before the sacred portals of Almacks. Standing in the line which was forming on the carpet walkway in front of the famous club, Melanie felt a wave of uncertainty wash over her.
    What if society didn't like her, she brooded, nervously wetting her lips with the tip of her tongue. What if she did not take? She wouldn't care so much for herself, but she couldn't bear the thought of disappointing her father. He seemed so concerned she should do well.
    "Ready, my dear?" the earl asked, laying a protective hand on her bare arm.
    Melanie gave him a quick smile, firmly pushing her disquieting fears aside. She covered his hand with hers, giving it a loving squeeze. "Ready, Papa," she said softly, her small chin raising with unconscious dignity as they began climbing the wide marble staircase leading to the Assembly Rooms.
    "Are you quite certain you wouldn't like a cup of punch, Lady Melanie?" Sir Christopher Whitneyasked for the third time in as many minutes, his gray eyes studying her face with puppylike adoration. "I would be more than happy to fetch it for you!"
    "Well, perhaps a small cup," Melanie relented, more out of a desire to be shed of her eager suitor's presence than out of any real thirst for the sickly sweet orgeat which was the only refreshment offered by the patronesses. "Thank you, Sir Christopher."
    "I won't be but a moment," he promised, his eyes taking on the fanatical glow of a young Galahad about to set out in search of the Holy Grail. "Wait for me here."
    After he departed, charging his way through the crowd like a Hussar, Melanie drifted over to the corner, where her grandmother was holding court on the Dowager's Bench. Shortly after her name had been called out by the club's major domo, the marchioness had settled down for a coz with her oldest and dearest friends, her duty apparently complete as far as she was concerned. When she saw Melanie standing before her she shot her an angry scowl.
    "And pray why are you wasting time standing here?" she demanded, lowering her voice to a low rumble. "You won't catch yourself a beau by hanging about me. Off with you now." She gestured toward the center of the room with her fan.
    "My apologies, Grandmother." Melanie refused to be cowed by Lady Charlotte's less than cordial welcome. "I came only to see how you were doing, and whether or not you required anything to drink. It's monstrously hot in here."
    "I am doing